


I have spent all my years believing in you

by Blue_Pyro



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Is Angsting, Drabble, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, My Emotional Word Vomit Following Episode 3, Not So Much Falling in Love as, not to show emotion but jesus christ, the-Idiots-Have-Been-in-Love-for-Six-Thousand-Years-and-it-Just-Took-Them-a-While-to-Notice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Pyro/pseuds/Blue_Pyro
Summary: He sat there, not being able to do anything but stare, for seconds that felt like an eternity to him. He stared at the incandescent creature sitting uncomfortably in front of him with bated breath, waiting for the forces of Heaven and Hell to come down on him and punish him because it must have been obvious to everyone by now, how absolutely gone Crowley was.He sat and he stared and he waited and when nothing happened, he opened his mouth, to say what he felt like he had been holding in since the Creation itself.He couldn't of course.What came out instead was: "I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go."Say yes, angel. Please.





	I have spent all my years believing in you

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still very much Emotionally Compromised over the whole ordeal, so here is my slightly fevered word vomit on our favourite ineffable idiots-in-love. 
> 
> I should also thank my impromptu beta, [UchihaBloodline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UchihaBloodline/pseuds/UchihaBloodline), for her indefatigable efforts. I owe you one.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, enjoy. 
> 
>    
> P.S.1. The title is from Queen's _Somebody to Love_. Originally it was Tchaikovsky's _The Nutcracker_ but I'm afraid it's been more than a fortnight.
> 
> P.S.2. The chapter title is from Queen's _You're My Bestfriend_. This one is supposed to be like that.
> 
> P.S.3. donate me more Kleenex, pls.

Crowley fell, obviously, a lot sooner than Aziraphale.

He fell and it only took him a couple hundred years to figure it out for what it was, and then he was absolutely _furious_. Foaming-at-the-mouth mad. He's a _demon_ for Go- Sata- _Somebody's_ sake! He was an agent of mischief and chaos! There to make the world a little more evil a day at a time. He wasn't supposed to  _care._ He wasn't supposed to–

He wasn't supposed to  _love._

But then there it was. That damned word.

If Downstairs found out that Crowley, a _demon_ , had not only fraternized but had gone and fallen in _love_ , with the uppercase Enemy nevertheless, it was over for Crowley. He'd never see the light of day again.

So, he kept it a secret.

 

But to his absolute dismay, with each passing century, instead of diminishing, it only grew and grew and grew and it became harder to act as if he didn't care.

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, always knew he loved Crowley.

He loved Crowley like he loved all beings. It was part of his programming, and he didn't question it. Didn't even notice it.

Until that one night.

Crowley had come, all knight-in-shining-black-suit, enduring the burn of Damnation, to save Aziraphale. And what's more, _he had saved his books_. He had done it without being asked because he _knew_ Aziraphale. Because he _cared_ ; Even though he would go black and blue in the face denying it if Aziraphale ever brought it up.

 

And Aziraphale, he — he _felt_.

 

He felt windswept. Like the world had suddenly screeched to a halt and started turning the other way. He looked at the man—the _demon_ —standing in front of him with an outstretched hand, holding his precious bag of books, and _he_ _felt_. Like he had never felt before. In front of his eyes flashed millennia of companionship, of _friendship_ and love. A love that he could now see, in the light of this new backward spinning world, was different from his passive love for everything else. He knew what the Ancient Greeks would have called it. He had been there, of course. This was no longer a Philia or an Agápe. No, this was much deeper, much more intense,

much scarier.

He could feel the heart he's technically not supposed to have fluttering like a small thing in his chest, and he could do nothing but stand there and stare for what felt like eons. Just staring at this—this _magnificent_ creature in front of him, this man who would risk so much for him without ever acknowledging it, without ever being asked, and he let it all wash over him.

 

And then Crowley called his name, asking what was holding him up, and Aziraphale could do nothing but smile and follow the man that he — that he _loved_ , all else be damned.

 

* * *

 

 

Crowley thought he finally had it under a modicum of control.

After 80 years of not seeing the angel, having parted ways with him in a self-righteous huff and furious steps, and then meticulously and carefully avoiding crossing paths with him for another quarter of a century, he thought he could finally, _finally_ control it. (Not destroy it. He had long since given up on that hopeful, terrible notion.) It had hurt, of course. He was still aching with it. But it was under control and that had to be enough.

He had thought he had it _under control_.

But then that very angel had turned up in his car, sitting in _his_ precious Bentley, and had held out his hand to him.

 

Aziraphale held out his hand, clutching the thermos filled with Holy water, obviously trying to affect an air of nonchalance and badly failing, and Crowley felt and felt and felt.

 

He felt so much that he thought it was going to leak out every seam of his Being, that he was going to explode with the _muchness_ of it and then everyone would know. They would know and come drag him kicking and screaming back to Hell and never let him see this man— _his angel_ —ever again. He sat there, not being able to do anything but stare, for seconds that felt like an eternity to him. He stared at the incandescent creature sitting uncomfortably in front of him with bated breath, waiting for the forces of Heaven and Hell to come down on him and punish him because it must have been obvious to everyone by now, how absolutely gone Crowley was.

He sat and he stared and he waited and when nothing happened, he opened his mouth, to say what he felt like he had been holding in since the Creation itself.

 

He couldn't of course.

 

What came out instead was: "I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go."

_Say yes, angel. Please._

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone needs me, I'm in a ball under the desk playing A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square on repeat and sobbing into my bucket of ice cream. Toodle-pip!


End file.
